Substitution
by aposse
Summary: He found her, but not under the circumstances he imagined.
1. Unnecessary Saving

**Substitution**  
**Rating:** T, for now  
**Pairing:** Reid/Prentiss  
**Summary:** He found her, but not under the circumstances he imagined.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't owe them, so don't sue me.

* * *

He stops himself from gnawing off his bottom lip, pressing it into a thin line as he stares blankly at the door. He's nervous. He always is, but he can't back down now. He's already made the call, and if he was correct and the promise of punctuality was kept, he would hear a knock in two minutes.

_Knocks. _He corrects himself in thought.

Three fast ones and two slow ones.

He wonders how low he's gone this time. He wonders what his colleagues would think if they discovered a side of him like this existed. He wonders when it began going downhill, and when he became so distant from himself that he had to resort to this.

He's debated countless times whether this was worse than his drug addiction; whether sex was a better outlet for emotions undealt with. He had these feelings. Odd ones that he still can't seem to figure out, even with the help of a book. They made his chest tighten and his breaths shorten. They made his lips quiver with guilt and eyes sting with sorrow. These feelings made him feel more than he could handle, and he used work to get rid of them. He'd work, harder than he was used to—until his eyes could no longer stay open, until his hands would beg him to stop writing, until Hotch _ordered_ for him to leave.

He'd do nearly everything to avoid dealing with the burden of his own emotions, and when work was no longer big enough cover what he kept trying to hide, he resorted to this.

Reid glances at the clock on the counter, not surprised that only half a minute has passed. His mind did always move too fast, even when he tried to slow it down to analyze the purpose of his thoughts.

"Breathe." He tells himself. And he does.

He can feel his skin itch and sweat, a sign he was near withdrawal, and he curses the agency for not knowing his habits. The ones in Quantico, Vegas, and Manhattan knew what he liked. They knew he wanted them early. That they'd walk in with professionalise, in_ every_ aspect, down to their attire. And when the door closes, they would know he would want all of that taken away, to see the woman behind that shield she wore to protect herself from the ruggedness of men.

Who was he kidding? He was in France.

He had to use a translator, for Christ's sake. That took 10 minutes alone, adding onto the extra 15 he had to rehearse for it to be deemed passable in the language. He'd be lucky if a woman even knocked on his door at all. He smiles, the bittersweet moment in his head replaying. The hostess said goodbye in a cheery tone, but she spoke too fast and too soon that when she set the phone down, he could hear her mumble something out loud.

He had no idea what, _U__n autre crétin étrange_, meant, and quite frankly, he was afraid to know.

Before he can resist his own temptation of grabbing the dictionary in his messenger bag, he hears the knock. _Knocks._

Three fast ones and two slow ones.

The great significance it had to him was for himself only. The obvious significance was that she was here. He swallows the words in his mouth and breathes the anxiousness in his system out, walking towards the door. He unlocks the it and steps back.

For a moment nothing happens. This is his test. He's made the effort of inviting them, and regardless of these circumstances, he still tries his best to be a gentlemen. The final decision is up to them, whether they open the door and walk into his life or just leave, Reid lets them decide.

He feels a sense of uncertainty in the air, and in result, he steps back, turning away, focusing his gaze on the vivid lights displayed outside his window. Most women don't catch on to his way of thought, especially ones in this profession. Only two out of the twelve times he's done this that it's ended up with him a fraction closer to satisfaction.

Three times the girls actually knocked again and asked to come in. Four times they just left, and the last three had him so desperate that he didn't even give them an option. He just opened the door and they came in.

He feels different this time. He doesn't want to force her to come in. He's been in so much pain recently that sometimes he feels guilt for allowing them to see just the mess he's become. He feels the guilt nearly every day. But every day, he pushes it aside into that corner of his head, or down to the dark depths of his heart.

He feels pathetic in his attempt to be rescued. Especially through sex, and especially through a call-girl. He feels pathetic at using this to live a moment he wish he'd had—to save someone he wish he could have saved.

The door slowly opens. Now it doesn't matter how pathetic he feels. _She's saving him._ Reid feels a smile creep onto his weary features_. She's allowing him to save the woman he couldn't rescue._ He waits for her to close the door before he turns around. _Today, he can finally save_—

"_Reid?_"

He freezes. His mouth is parted half-way, and her designation disipitates into the air as his mind processes that voice. He's in profile. That's as far as he got in turning before he stopped.

He asked for a woman with dark hair. Near to raven black, if possible. She also must have brown eyes. That was a demand. He wanted them big enough that he could see into them and know who she really was. He even gave a height and weight to be as specific as possible.

The hair and eyes were nailed most of the time. Only once was the height served through, and that had been Vegas. He figured earlier that getting the height right would be a long shot. Apparently Morgan was right when he said France had a lot of '_shorties._' He never knew it was meant in the literal sense.

But it doesn't shock him that the woman standing before him accommodates _all_ his preferences. It doesn't shock him that she's an exact replica of the woman he's tried to push out of his thoughts for nearly a year. What shocks him is that the woman he's been trying to save in his mind doesn't need saving.

Emily Prentiss doesn't need saving because she's alive.

"I need to leave." She mumbles to herself.

_Again._ He feels a spark in him light up. He doesn't know what to do with it. "I need to leave." She says again, louder, but her body seems to be doing nothing of the sorts.

Moments pass by as he waits for her leave. The feelings he's been avoiding to deal with are now in the room with him. They're with him inside Emily Prentiss. Those feelings _are _Emily Prentiss, and he concludes that leaving those feelings will hurt less than confronting them. "Reid," It's becoming difficult to ignore that voice, and all it takes is for her to take a step forward that the spark inside him ruptures into uncontrollable flames.

"You don't get to apologize." He says it loud, nearing the line of a shout. He can see her foot take a step back, and with firmness she responds quietly.

"I didn't."

"It may have been over a year, Prentiss, but you haven't changed one bit. Your head always tilts to the right and you furrow your brows just before you spit out a form of apology." He takes note of her cringe when he uses her last name, and he feels lousy for doing this to her. He knows she had no other choice, yet the part of him that's been wounded by her won't tone down the bitterness.

She scoffs, and with that breath she releases the pity act. "I'm that easy, huh?"

"Apparently in the bedroom as well."

He doesn't know when hostility became so evident as his defence mechanism, and as much as he doesn't mean it, he finds it better than admitting he's missed her. It hurts him to say those words, but with discretion, he looks over and realizes it hurts her more to hear them. The dark head withdraws from the tilt, and he sees eyes blink furiously, chest rising with breath and uncertainty.

"I'm going to leave now. I'm—I'm sorry, Spencer."

There it was. There _she_ was. There was Emily. She could have brought up why he fell down into a spiral, but she didn't. She could have used that the circumstances they met under was beyond out of his character, and she could have lectured him on it. Even expressed her disgust. But she didn't. She could have responded with anger and the bitterness he knew she had, but she didn't. She didn't want to make it worse, possibly because it couldn't.

Before she gathers the courage to even shuffle, he's somehow managed to get past her and to the door. His voice bounces off the wood, echoing into the room. "You don't get to apologize," He takes a hold of the knob and trails his hand up to the lock. "And you don't get to leave." He locks it.

"What do I get to do, then?" Her voice seems farther in distance.

"Your job."

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
Dun dun dun. Well, I'll let you go crazy with that last line until I update. Perhaps what you think is not what you think. Or is it? Hm..  
Your thoughts would honestly be appreciated :)


	2. Revival

**Chapter Two: **Revival

* * *

Though his eidetic memory may never allow him to forget the animosity he's seen, he's grateful for the convenience it has to him now. To know her reaction means he's a step ahead, and that's what he needs. He knows that her lips are parted halfway, mouthing words that she can't seem to string together, even with a mind like hers. He knows that because her lips are parted halfway, her eyebrows will line with disbelief, and when that happens, he's positive a line of uncertainty will appear between when she furrows them.

"You want me to do my job—I beg your pard—_excuse me_?" He isn't surprised by her reaction, the broken sentence caused by the ambiguity of his answer.

He turns around with a smug look on his face. Pursing his lips into a mocking smile, he ends her suffering with clarification. "Your old one."

"Wh-what?"

Reid moves away from the door and brushes past her, his eyes set on the manila folder flipped open on his desk. "The team and I are here on a case. We usually don't, well, _rarely_, fly out of the country unless it was of grave importance and this time it actually is. Garcia brought this to our attention. It's this series of murders that's happening around the—"

"Spencer." The calling of his first name stops him immediately. Its tone is different, and he feels a shiver at the sharp ending. "Spencer, look at me." One hand rests on the desk as the other grabs hold of the folder in mid air. "Please look at me." He knew the moment he locked the door this wouldn't work. Though he never admits to missing her, the decision his subconscious made says it well enough. He can hear a small sigh unintentionally escape, and it's in that moment he complies to her demand.

"What are you doing?" He can see those dark eyes struggling to hold their composure, her voice already giving in. It's a mixture of grief, anger, frustration, and unmistakable confusion.

The latter emotion is one he can relate very strongly to at the moment. He doesn't exactly know what he's trying to accomplish either, though he does have a vague idea.

"Do you even know the danger you're in because I'm in this room? Do you even know the—"

"Do _you_ even know the dangers of being a _prostitute_, Emily?" His reply comes as a shock to her. Even to him, actually. He shakes away the consciousness he feels, knowing to be coarse is the only way to be if he wants her to talk.

"Technically, I'm a high end call gir—"

"_Prostitutes_ are one of the largest demographics in crimes that end up in abuse and murder. Yes, that has _much_ less risk than your old job. Great convenience when it comes to weapons, too. I assume you don't need to holster the one between your legs." His sarcasm flies across the room, nearly slapping her in the face.

He sees her lips move in an attempt to speak, but she shuts them quickly before uttering anything she might regret. She swallows what could have been the last of her patience, and he hopes for it to be. He can't stand using incivility to evoke any reaction from her. It disgusts him what he has to say to make her angry, to get her to talk, to _stay_. She turns to the window, pulling hurriedly at the sides to bring down the blinds. Like she's afraid—like she's still in hiding, and in that moment he considers his cruel joke as a possibility. That maybe this profession was safer than being on the team. He said it himself that prostitutes had a large demographic, a harder find for Ian Doyle compared to her being on the—

"_Dr. Reid, extraordinary young genius, discovered by Jason Gideon_," She flings her arms in the air with exaggeration, her voice startlingly loud. "_Now using prostitutes to relieve the overwhelming stress of being in the FBI._ Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" She sneers at him as she paces the room mercilessly.

There it is. The bitterness, the relentlessness; there's the Emily he was afraid of. There's the woman he was indifferent towards when she began her tenure at the BAU, and the woman who undoubtedly stood right next to him during his darkest moments of denial and need.

"What's happened to you?" He looks up, and just like that, she's gone; the woman he knows is nowhere in sight. The intensity her eyes display vanishes, and an irrefutable sense of hopelessness replaces them. "What did you think— that just because you've found me, I can pick up from where I left off? I can't do that, and you know why I can't."

She paces slower, and he watches the dread in every step. It creeps its way up her neck as she swallows her emotions, tainting the beauty of the features on a face that was once stone. It looks softer now, and he wonders why the year hasn't weighed on her. She would have been—she _is_ forty-two now.

"God, Reid, this is completely like you. You always fool me. You make me think you've changed. I_ thought _you changed," She gestures vaguely at him, raising the hand to her head quickly thereafter. She must have a headache.

Without even thinking he sets down the file on the desk, reaching in his bag for something to—

"It's okay. I don't need any." The quiet refusal stops him. "Do you see what I mean?" She huffs out a laugh, frustration evident in the breath. "There's this part of you that hasn't changed, Reid. The sweet, innocent, caring part of you that's naïve but at the same time so.. so _mature_. You're angry with me, I understand that. But I can't understand is how you could just think this to be so easy. You study some of the most intricate and puzzling subjects, you analyze theories and create your own, and you_ know_, Reid…" Her finger shakes in his direction, and as they curl into the comfort of her palm, he wonders what hurts more.

Her words or those fake nails.

"You know just how tangled this web is." She bows her head at the admittance of her defeat, at the curse Ian Doyle has given her. "Why can't you accept that? Why—What's hurt you so much that your head isn't screwed on properly? That you're powerless when it comes to controlling your own petulance?" She takes a breath to release the remnants of venom in her words, and when she speaks again, he wishes for that hostility to return, unable to handle the feebleness in her voice.

"What's hurt you so much, Spencer, that you need to use _sex_ to make it go away?"

He's wondered that as well. He's wondered a lot, actually. He's wondered countless times and regardless the difference of his approach, he always ended up with the same answer. "You."

He expects many things to come out of her mouth. Whether it be profanity or refusal, he's prepared himself for whatever reaction she may have. His hands are now stuffed into his pockets, and he fidgets with them at the prolonged silence. He watches as she sits herself down on the sofa, scooting over the edge.

The stillness between them stretches out to the point of discomfort. He's the one to be usually left speechless, the one lacking social skill.

"I'm.. I'm sor—"

"No." He stops her before those words get the best of him. "I told you, you don't get to apologize." He steps forward, and when her eyes finally relent and look up, he is hit with heavy pangs of guilt. "I understand why Emily had to die. I _understand_, but I'm not able to accept the end of her existence. Emily meant—she _means_ a lot to me…"

He rocks back and forth at the sudden anxiousness rising in his chest. "About five years ago, when I was struggling with an addiction, she, uh… she knew something was up. The team ignored it to my preference, but she kept picking at me like she wanted my approval of her joining… but she _knew_, and as much as I detested the fact she'd give her all to be there for me, even if it meant leaving me alone, I secretly liked it. I was appreciative of it, and I'm grateful she did that. I have so much to thank her for I—" He rocks forward on his toes, digging his hands as far as possible into his pockets. "I can tell you about the time she and I got held hostage by a cult leader, and what she did for me then, but uh, I think you understand." He sits himself on the seat across from her, averting her gaze. "She knew the difference of wanting to be alone and feeling lonely. I could talk to her about peas and it's relevance to love. She was the only one who I could call if I had the sudden urge to watch a foreign film without subtitles. She understood me… which a lot of people rarely do. You don't get to apologize because you're not required to."

He can see what he's done, and though he feels somewhat accomplished at getting to the core of a woman he thought to be unbreakable, he also feels... awful at the state he's put her in. Her eyes glass over with tears, and he can see the resistance she displays at not blinking.

"Emily's gone but—"

He tries to move forward with _whatever_ it is they're having, but when she shakes her head, the tears she tries so hard to hold back brim over, and it forces him to stop.

"I," She takes a deep breath. "I think you may have just brought her back to life." She blinks rapidly to get the tears out and breathes loudly to speak through them. "And I think she wants to stay alive for you, but right now," Her head tilts in that manner he dislikes, the one she unknowingly does before saying something she doesn't want to. "But right now Carrie has to leave."

"Carrie.." he pauses. He thinks back years ago, the name ringing a familiar bell.

Carrie.

Carrie.

Then he remembers.

_Carrie_. That was the name of the girl involved in a case where two men would use a cat to get into homes, using the innocence of the feline to kill families. He was sure of it, and now, looking at the fragile woman before him, he isn't surprised.

She nods at him, knowing he understands the significance behind it. "I can take care of her this way, like I always wanted to." She continues to stare nervously at her lap.

He covers her fidgeting hands with his own, bravery evident in the action. "I'm not sure high-end prostitution is a proper way of stabilizing a life, Emily."

"You don't need to worry about that."

"Yes, I do." He squeezes the still hands softly.

"No, you don't." She pulls away from his grip, and when he thinks she's closed back up, he feels warmth cover the entirety of his hands. "Another reason why I can't go back to my old job is because I'm still doing it. Just not as… extreme."

"No kicking down doors anymore?" He teases, subtly celebrating his discovery of this profession to be nothing more than a cover. He makes note to ask her what she's working.

She scoffs, forcing a weak smile. "Morgan always did that for me." He then realizes that his hand is placed overtop her knee, feeling a rather odd vibration. He drops his gaze to see her tapping her feet nervously, and when he glances back up he catches her eyes fixed on the clock behind him.

"I wish you didn't have to leave." He mumbles, feeling horrible at the realization of this possibly being the last time he'll see her again.

"Carrie has to. I never said Emily does." He can feel the warmth of her fingers tangling with the iciness of his. "Emily has a lot to talk to you about, and she knows that now you're aware she's still alive, you won't let go of her."

He looks back down and nips at his bottom lip. "I'll walk you out, Carrie." He pulls back from her grip, slowly, so he can remember what her skin feels like against his. He stores that feeling in his mind, marking its privacy.

They stand up at the same time and he lets her walk ahead, reaching into his bag to grab what he's been debating on giving her the moment she walked in his room.

"I told you I didn't need any—" She stops when she turns back to him, eyes fixed on what he holds.

"This is a way for me to be always with you." He timidly offers her the stack of envelopes. "I never did get to say goodbye. My therapist told me to write a letter for closure, but I just ended up writing to you like you were on a really long vacation. I kept thinking about putting them on your.." He pauses, blinking away the images of her tombstone, trying to erase it from his memory. "It didn't feel right. But this does."

She hesitantly takes them, brushing her fingers over his as he hands her the burden of his kept emotions and secrets. "Thank you." He should be the one thanking her, but when he finally notices the crack in her voice, his mind wanders someplace else.

She's leaving him, again.

"Thank you." She whispers, placing the letters in her purse. She takes a step forward and rests a hand on his shoulder. His mind quickly gets to work on remembering the lightness of her hand, burning her touch onto his body so he knows just where her fingers end and where her wrist curves. "Thank you." She says again, and it takes every fibre of his being to not act out on the odd feelings that desperately try to control him.

All he does is nod and steps to the side, keeping his head faced away so he doesn't have to see her leave. The door closes, and he's alone again. The only difference this time is that _Emily_ now carries his secrets, holding his darkest of moments in that small leather purse.

He should feel happy at the thought of them never coming back to haunt him, but instead, it causes him grief. Because he knows that if they don't return, neither will she.

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
Thank you all for the reviews on the first chapter. I really do appreciate it, and hopefully this satisfies you until the next update :)  
Again, your thoughts on this would make me incredibly happy. Thanks for reading!


	3. Catching Up

**Chapter Three: **Catching Up

* * *

It takes her nearly the same amount of time to untie the string as it does to get her home— an hour. She never works close to home, if what she resides in even qualifies to be one. The dank, one bedroom, apartment is placed smack in the middle of the city of Nice, France. Emily left Paris a few weeks after JJ had given her the comfort of three countries, her travels parallel to a tourist company to avoid setting off any flags with Doyle.

This is the most she's ever felt at home since leaving the team. Despite the blank walls, plainly covered bed and nearly empty fridge, it's where she's been the longest. It's been nearly a month, but due to her unexpected encounter with Spencer Reid, she may have to reconsider that.

Emily shifts uncomfortably on the edge of her bed as she lets the string drop to the floor, holding tightly onto the stack of envelopes. She brushes her thumb across the rigid edges of the stamps, and her eyes wander to the address.

_Caelum _

The one word stands out strongly on the white envelope, more so than the identity she once presumed. She knows Spencer isn't one to be simple in his language, so she shouldn't surprised he's used a Latin word to signify where he assumes her to be. In the skies. Heaven.

He's let her go. She feels a tug of guilt inside of her, the realization dawning that she was on completely different page. She herself felt reconnected, but seeing _this_—seeing that he's let go—makes her feel shame. What has she done to him by walking back into his life? The guilt rises to the brim of her eyes as tears threaten to fall, but she steels herself, strengthening her wall from breaking. She sets the recent letter aside and flips back to the beginning of the pile.

She notices the address; it's the one of her brownstone. The envelope is beginning to rip, and its color is much more faded than the rest. She sees faint marks overlapping where her name is written shakily in ink. The faded pencil looks like he'd been writing something over and erasing it again. Emily imagines him sitting at his desk in the middle of the night, trying to get the curve of the _m_ just right and the _s'_ to look nearly the same.

She's always aimed for perfection, and it isn't a surprise it's what he's tried to achieve with his first letter to her. She sets this one aside, next to the most recent one, and grabs a few more, making sure to never lose track of where they were once placed.

Emily ends up with 12. One for each month of the year that's passed. She piles them up separately and opens the first one.

* * *

April 1st, 2011

Emily,

Our grief counselor told me to write you a letter for closure, and after a week of putting it off, I'm finally doing it. This is what this is.

April Fool's.

It's been twenty-five days since you left us. Our grief counselor has been with us for twenty-one. Every day since then, exactly seven minutes after four in the afternoon, when the small talk and settling is over, she asks me the same question: _what's on your mind?_ I always answered with nerve, telling her that several statistics were currently on my mind and that it seemed impossible to feed her all the information in the hour she and I had.

Three days in, I got tired of lying. I was tired of lying to her and to myself, and I told her what was exactly on my mind. You. I never had a chance to say goodbye to you. I mean, I was _going_ to, don't think for a second that I didn't want to. JJ stopped me when I tried, and as hazy as my thoughts should be in that situation, I remember feeling… hope. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to see you in _that _way, and I'm glad. Because that means you're still alive. To me, at least.

I can't say goodbye to you because there isn't a reason to. You're still here. Just not with us. I like to think you're taking a really long vacation, and though it may seem unhealthy for my mind, you must understand… it's much simpler than admitting other things.

I'll write to you soon,  
Reid

* * *

She doesn't know what to make of it. One part of her aches at the thought of putting him in such pain—that illusion was the only way for him to continue to live his life. His innateness pierces her heart, and guilt fills her up once more. Then, there's another part. A part of her that's angry. She feels the heat inside her growing with each word she reads. Why did it have to be _him_ who got the worse of her leaving? She's infuriated that he won't stop and just _accept_ the fact of her 'death', but the part of her that aches, _likes_ it.

He never forgot her.

Emily sets the letter down, folding it back, following the creases of the paper. She shakily places it back in the envelope and sets it down. The Spencer Reid a year ago was a mess, and as she contemplates on reading the month after, she decides to skip ahead. She sets her eyes on an orange envelope, one decorated in the spirits of Halloween. Hopefully the six months in between were good to him.

* * *

October 12th, 2011

Emily,

I spent today celebrating a milestone. 30. Three decades of living with the intellect superior to others. Garcia wheeled out a cake, and as much as I don't like my birthday being known, there was something about this one that made me want to live it up. Then there was something that held me back. I guess I found it a bit unfair you weren't here to celebrate yours either. I kept thinking that I should make you a cake, but I decided to save the disaster for when you return.

We really miss you over here.

I've been struggling, Emily. Every day I wonder if I would even be in this mess if you hadn't left. I can't bring myself to put the blame on anyone but myself, though. The team is beginning to notice the changes in me. I've been struggling really hard, and I can't let anyone in, except you. The door is open but you're nowhere to be seen.

Happy Birthday,  
Spence

* * *

She could be analyzing the fact that he used a shortened version of his first name, which meant that he was getting more comfortable with writing to her. She could also have pondered on his sweetness when he said he wanted to make her a cake. She could have been thinking about those things, but something else invaded her mind.

_I've been struggling._

With what? Was he talking about the sex? She pushes down the cluster of her emotions into the envelope, along with the letter. Her mind switches off the personal attachment, and she opens his writings between the last two she read.

Emily sits and reads. She gets some laughs out of the events of Spencer's day, but mostly, she gets sad. With each letter begging for her to return, to help him, she feels guilt. She reads about how he doesn't understand why he feels this way, why he can't stop, and what he's done. She never comes across a letter that puts the slightest blame her. She begins to feel angered at this, at how blind he can be.

She feels this unjustified feeling throughout her entire sitting, and when she opens to read the last and most recent letter, the anger suddenly disappears. All kinds of emotions run through her, the one prevalent a mixture of confusion and relief. Her eyes focus on the door, her legs begin to move, and not knowing what the consequences of this action will be, she leaves, tightly grasping the white sheet in her hand.

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
What could that final letter contain? 0o0o, you'll have to find out soon :)


	4. The Letter

**Chapter Four:** The Letter

* * *

His eyes narrow, absorbing the detail of the leather he faces. He lies on the couch with ease, the shallow cushioning reminding him earlier how he felt on it; uncomfortable. The leather up-close looks rough and somewhat rocky in texture compared to its smooth appearance, and Spencer wonders if that's what Emily's been all these years. He wonders how much of her words were actually truth, how much of her smiles were used to cover up frowns, and he wonders if the pain in her eyes were more from just the cases. If he'd looked closer, pushed harder, perhaps she'd be next door, working their current case.

He shakes his head and tries to forget about it.

An hour later, he's against the cushioned headboard of his bed, lolling his head listlessly from side to side. His mind has no place else to wander but to the events earlier in the evening. He's at the point where he's so over panicked that his fatigue catches up, leaving him in a seemingly serene state.

He doesn't really know what he's done. How much of his life he's just handed to a ghost, and if that part of him will ever come back. If _she_ will ever come back. He thinks of the past year, and his struggles, and what he's written to her. Nearly a hundred letters. That's not counting the ones he's burned and crumpled. Those were way too personal to—

_No._

Spencer feels his entire body tense at the realization of his mistake. He reaches over the side of his bed and grabs his bag, turning it upside down in search for that one sign of relief. He doesn't find it.

"No…" He runs over to his desk and flips through the files of the case, and as small as the chance is of finding that letter, he can't help but try anyways. The letter he wrote two days ago was in that stack. The one he _wasn't_ supposed to pile up with the others, but put at her grave.

He feels his chest tighten and his skin begin to sweat. He begins to feel regret at the decision he blindly made, and Spencer contemplates on hunting her down to get that one letter back. He knows her name and maybe he can get Garcia to— but that means she has to know. And for Emily's sake, no one else can. He knows that Penelope's heart has always kept a space open for that lost love, and he knows it will hurt more to fill than to keep empty.

He pauses for a moment. Does he really want to go to all this trouble to get that letter back, or to go see her? He ponders at that thought, taking a seat as his mind quickly tries to gather up logic for an answer. He certainly doesn't want the letter back. There isn't a word able to justify the feeling he received when writing it—to admit something like _that_ was _not_ easy, and Spencer is one to never discuss anything so personal twice. He isn't one to really discuss anything personal to anyone. His statistics are a wall of safety, and it's seldom for him to bring that wall down.

Just as his mind concludes to something he's denied for a very long time, he hears something. A knock. _Knocks._

Three fast ones and two slow ones.

His brows furrow for a moment, quickly rising up in disbelief. He hasn't called the agency. It must be—

"Spencer.." She sounds tired. Drowsy, almost. He's reluctant to open the door, just like he is with his heart, but his body betrays him in action.

His trembling hand unlocks the bolt, and he takes a cautious step back. She shoves herself inside and leans against the door, locking it as she catches a breath. He hears a crinkle as she moves, and in that moment he knows why she's here.

Emily opens her eyes with an unreadable expression. She removes her hand from her backside and finds his relief. The letter is tightly anchored in a sweaty grip. She begins to smooth out the wrinkles with both hands, and as her eyes stay locked with his, he notices a flicker of emotion. Apology rings around her dark irises. "Why would you write this?"

He knows it's not rejection of his emotions, but confusion.

"Why would you," she gestures at the letter, her voice rising with frustration, "do _that_, Spencer? You were supposed to forget about me. You were supposed to move on and—" She stops. He sees the emotions running wildly through her eyes, the fear tainting every word she mumbles, and the uncertainty she moves with.

He tries quickly to string together a sentence—something that will break the silence, but he can't. "Can I see it?" The voice he hears is meek; nothing compared to the angry one he heard not even a minute ago.

Spencer simply nods, despite the voices in his head telling him no. His left hand peeks out from his pocket as he offers it to her grasp, feeling her fingers gently pry his fist open to reveal a small, yet significant symbol on the center of his palm.

"The tattoo artist warned me." He began, seeing the puzzled look on Emily's face. He tries not to flinch as her thumb traces the loops. "She said it'd take a while for this to heal, and I told her that was okay, and I knew. I wanted it to heal slowly, _with_ me." He closes it up and holds her hand. "You held this hand four years ago, when you told me what Cyrus did to you was not my fault, and that you'd do it again. That you'd suffer at my cost, and you did, over a year ago." He tightens his grip. "This is my undying gratitude, my memory of you. This _is_ you, and what you are to me, Emily." He softly loosens his hand away from hers, shoving it back in his pocket. Spencer keeps his eyes at the floor, trying to ground his heels, keeping from rocking forward. "You're infinite."

Moments of silence pass, and he finally looks up. Emily's hand hasn't moved, and he wonders if she's doing what he's been doing the past year; holding onto what isn't there. She hasn't taken her eyes off of him yet, and if he thinks he's seen fear in them, what he stares into now proves that he hasn't. The uncertainty her eyes gloss with pain him, more than the bullets he's been hit with, more than the addictions he's struggled through.

Somewhere between her last words to him and his explanation of the tattoo, she's completely let her wall down. He can see the tears forming, melting the layers, meshing together the emotions she's pushed down. Emily curls her fingers in, leaving one standing up. Her index finger shakes uncontrollably, and in her unsuccessful attempt to communicate through actions, she tucks that one in with the others. He can see her eyes dodge from corner to corner of the room, in search for something.

"It's to your right." He directs, and she quickly nods her head, the sudden movement causing the wetness to brim over her eyes. She grips tightly onto the letter, more than ever, and makes way for the bathroom.

When he knows she's locked herself in and has stopped pacing mercilessly in the small vicinity, he approaches. He crouches down near the door and leans his head heavily against it, the complexity of the situation finally dawning on him. Spencer hears a muffled sniffle, then a few crinkles. As Emily opens the letter, he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do next.

He recites her the letter he's written. He says it the way he feels. He pauses, emphasizes—he even stutters at the words he had to erase and rewrite. Once he's finished, he starts over again, and says it the exact same way, though he's surprised with the ease he's overcome with this time. He repeats himself, almost like a broken record, reminding her that nothing but truth resides in his words.

* * *

_Emily, _

_I__'ve realized that you don't have to be alive for me to hold on. Whether we walk the same ground, or you watch me from above, I will always have you with me. Your essence, to say the least. If there is any word to sum up my feelings for you, it's this. Infinite. What I feel for you is immeasurable. I feel for you, Emily. Perhaps too much, and the regret I must live with for the entirety of my life is never expressing that care. I've become certain in the past year of this—that these words are meant for you and you **only**. I love you. And if for a second you think it hurts to not hear it back, the silence that prevails comforts me; you've given your life to say the same. _

_Yours,  
Spencer _

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
If I wasn't clear in what the tattoo was, it's the infinity sign. The actual symbol can't be posted onto this document, so hopefully you all got it with little to no confusion. Thanks for reading, a review would be great, and stay tuned for more :)


	5. Quid Pro Quo

**Chapter Five:** Quid Pro Quo

* * *

She exits the bathroom with caution, slowly opening the door, afraid that his weight still leans against it. She's spent nearly two hours locked in there, using up a roll of toilet paper and a healthy amount of soap to wash away the guilt she's been trying to rub off. Emily is surprised to find no sight of him on the floor, but on the bed. She watches Spencer with awareness, noting his tapping foot and the vein that pulses on his temple. She becomes aware of his worry when she sees him near the edge of the bed, seemingly unaware of her presence.

"Would you still have said it if I were next door?" She asks. The declaration of his love for her still lingers in her mind. Emily stops directly in front of him, setting her body square to his. Her fidgeting fingers contradict the powerful stance.

He looks up at her with _that _look—that innocent, guilt-inducing look he unknowingly does, like she's just told a child Barney was actually a 40 year-old man sweating inside a dinosaur suit. Emily tilts her head forward with a slight nod. She pushes for an answer with her actions, afraid that her voice may betray her.

The realization dawns on him, and something inside his eyes shift. He just looks at her—not with _that_ look, but with another. It's certain. It's genuine. It's also fear. She sees the fear of rejection swimming slowly in his eyes, and that's when Emily _knows_. That's when she knows her reciprocation of the three words won't be enough.

She stops picking at her fingernails and trails them down to unbutton her coat. She's quick, and before his face can even express the slightest reaction, she's working at the buttons of her blouse. The cherry silk brushes against her wrist, the softness contrasting with the tone of his words.

"Emily.." He warns, with confusion. Spencer retracts the hand that reaches up out of instinct. He tries to stop her with words instead. "I don't mean it in that way."

_Don't_. He said _don't_. _Didn't_ was the past. _Don't _was now, the present. He _still _feels it for her, and though the relief should be easing in at the discovery, she can't help but catch the rest of his words_. _

_I don't mean it in **that** way._

Before doubt can consume her thoughts, he continues. "I mean it in every way." She's stopped at the third button, and with the reassurance, she continues.

"I know you do." She replies. He knows better to question her, so he keeps quiet, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. She looks down as she loosens the final button, and in her line of vision she sees his foot move outward. He's ready to run if things go south (literally, he must be thinking). Emily tries to hide her smirk at his misinterpretation, though she can't blame him. "I know you do," she repeats, "And I trust you enough to show you this."

Despite her intention to look him in the eye, the sudden shame that washes over causes her to resist. "I…" She can't say the words. She feels them, strongly, but she can't say them, and the frustration becomes evident when she lets out a breath. Timidness flushes down her neck, and Emily brings a hand up to her chest, tapping the left side with a finger.

She's struck thoughtless at what comes next.

Spencer rises from the bed, towering over her not only in height, but in confidence. Hesitation peaks out as he shifts his weight on his feet, asking with silence for permission to continue. Emily nods. She braces herself, feeling his cold touch penetrate through the silk.

He lifts the fabric off.

It cascades down her shoulders, her arms, and when they ring around her wrists, she knows she has to let go. But she can't, and when she feels a familiar touch over her hand, she does all she can to not weep. Emily doesn't remember how many times she's cried the past day, but all she knows it's been a lot—she's spilled more tears in the past 4 hours than she has her entire life.

Spencer holds onto her hand, tighter, and when she finally has the courage to look up into his eyes, she does it. Emily lets go, unveiling her insecurity, allowing him to see her vulnerability. She's frightened at first. When his fingers softly trail the stem of the clover, she does her best to not flinch. She hasn't felt a touch that gentle in a while, and the sensation causes her regain her strength.

"We see a lot of ugly things in our line of work." Her voice is low, to a whisper, almost. "I never thought I'd see anything worse than what we have, but I was wrong. Sometimes… sometimes I wish I would have died right then and there." Emily feels his touch stop at the confession, the action betraying the stoic expression on his face. She watches the line of his brows, seeing the slight furrow as his fingers trace over the leaves. "He's done more than branded me. He's made me his victim, and I thought nothing more than that while he was doing it. I thought that when they revived me, when they hid me, and when I ran."

She stops his touch with her hand. "Then one day, I thought of you." Her fingers press against his, and she lays his hand flat against the scar and over her heart. "I remembered your drawing of this clover on that yellow sheet of paper, and all of a sudden, it wasn't so bad anymore."

She sees the twitch in his lips, the pout that's beginning to form. "You've made me realize, Spencer, that there is still beauty, even in the most terrible things." Emily removes his hand and takes it into her own. "Thank you."

They stand there, for moments uncountable, for silence undisturbed. She's holding his hand and he's holding hers. She's counting every freckle that nearly invisible to the eye when he moves closer. Spencer places a kiss, onto the tip of her nose. When he pulls back, she can't help but give him a puzzled look.

"The _nose_?" She conceals her amusement.

"One to the head implies a maternal nature while one to the lips…" She watches him as he fumbles for an answer. "It's not there yet."

Emily narrows her eyes. "And by _it_ you mean?"

"My courage." He admits, and she begins to feel his hands loosen their grip. "Is a hug okay?" He hesitantly begins to move them into an embrace.

Then he stops. If her silence isn't enough, the guilt in her eyes is. She lets go of his hands, languidly wrapping her arms around her trembling frame. Emily wonders how many beats his heart has just skipped.

"I feel these things for you, Spencer; the same things you feel for me, and I feel guilt at that. I feel endless amounts of undeserving emotion from you, and before you do anything else, go into that bathroom and read what's written on the back of that letter… and tell _then_ if you still feel these things for me."

He looks at her, the worry and confusion evident in his features. His eyes studying her face, trying to find any traces of what she could possibly mean. She hides her emotions well, plastering her best Hotch face. "One condition." He says, and before Emily is able to give her consent, he continues. "You don't leave this room."

She swallows the fear rising up, attempting to stain her words. All she does is nod. It's curt, it's small and barely noticeable, but she's made her promise and that's all Spencer needs. He nods, walking back a few steps before completely turning to the bathroom. He's quick in his movement, like he doesn't trust her word, but she knows better to conclude to that—he's always been a little impatient, and it isn't a surprise he's rushing to obtain knowledge he doesn't already have.

The seconds and the minutes pass.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, the unreadable expression on his face frightens her. Emily does her best to ground her body. She sees his lips moving, his eyes scanning the paper endlessly as if she's written an essay to him. There are only three words etched shakily onto the back, and it's not ones he'd ever expect to hear. His voice, as meek and as low it is from realization, echoes loudly in the room.

"Doyle is dead?"

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
You thought you were getting some love today, weren't you? We're not there.. yet. There's still a lot to be sorted out before we lead to that, but hopefully you're all satisfied. Also, thanks to the wonderful reviews so far. It's honestly so appreciated and an honor. Thanks for the read, and stay tuned!


	6. Unravelling

**Chapter 6: **Unravelling

* * *

She watches his mouth move, whispering the words, becoming accustomed to the truth they hold.

It's been exactly 71 days.

She remembers her heart stopping at the news. It didn't just skip _a_ beat. It skipped many, and if her mind hadn't kicked into gear, she's quite sure it probably would have stopped all together. She remembers her palms sweating, gripping tightly on the arm of the seat as she took off halfway around the world, the necessity of seeing it for herself. And she most definitely remembers feeling… nothing when she pressed her fingers against his neck. Literally.

Doyle is dead.

Has been for 71 days.

She still can't believe it, and by the way he's frozen, it seems like Spencer can't either. Emily resists the urge to move as she stands her ground in silence. The three words give less relief to him than she expects – she imagines the confusion running through his mind and his eyes flickering rapidly with thought.

_This is it. __This is the end. _

"Dead?" Emily's pulled from her notions at the pitch of his voice. She watches him; mouth gaped open then shutting to a close, the lump in his throat moving down then slowly crawling its way back up.

Words weren't really needed for a response with Emily; she was always good at deciphering body language and translating expressions into reactions. _Was. _The Profiler Emily may have interpreted the silence for over a handful of things by now, but the Emily that stands before the man she's run away from – the Emily that's forgotten how to compartmentalize – cannot.

"Dead." He repeats the word. It's flat. It's certain. She catches the small glint of relief in his eyes, and when he blinks, it's gone. "If he's dead, then, _why?_" His eyes are set to the floor as he walks in an uneven pace. He hands the letter back, his fingers at the very edge of the paper, avoiding contact with her hands.

"Why.. what?" _Why didn't I return?_

He walks past her, pacing around the bed to the opposite side. His hair's grown, not as long as when they first met, but not as short as when she left. It surrenders to the weight of gravity when he tilts his head to the window. "Why did you close the blinds and shut the curtains? Why did you ask me if I knew the danger I was in by you being in this room?" He stuffs his hands into his pockets, with more force than he should, inhaling a deep breath before he continues. "Why did you lie to me, Emily, again?"

_Again._

She's lied to him, many times. Perhaps with the smallest things about herself or the great interest she has in his statistics, but right now, two lies are all that seem to really matter. The first being that she lied about her death. She's unsure if he's forgiven her about that, but with the letters and the kiss on the nose, the thought doesn't seem so far off. The second lie, she doesn't really know.

"Doyle being dead isn't technically a lie but a delay in information." She decides the safest way to approach the subject is through stalling, at least until he understands.

"Stop stalling, Emily, and just please… tell me." Emily's been so lost in her thoughts that only _now_ is when she realizes just how broken he sounds. She turns around and faces him. She's been so consumed with finding ways to avoid telling him her truths that only _now_ is when she realizes just how hurt he looks. She clutches the letter, tightly, like it may as well be the last good thing she has of him. Emily's been so selfish that only _now_ is when she realizes just how much he's been struggling.

She complies. "I wasn't lying to you, Spencer." She lowers herself—she sits on the floor and she lets down all her walls. Too long it had been since she's allowed anyone to see the least bit of vulnerability. Never has anyone seen _all_ of her. "If I'm going to tell you, I'm going to have to tell you it all. _Everything_ I feel." Brightly mismatched socks come into her view, and she taps the carpet beneath her fingers. He sits down, quite distant from her. So distant that her hand is still where she's motioning for him to sit.

When he's settled and the silence is less painful, Emily begins. She_ tries_ to at least, that is until she realizes that she doesn't know how to start. She doesn't know how to make her explanation eloquent. She doesn't know how to sugar coat the truth. So she doesn't. "I was talking about myself."

She sees his head turn to face her, holding its neutral stance.

"You don't know how much danger you're in just by being in the same room as me. He's dead, Spencer, and I'm _still_ running." When she turns to face him, he pulls back, his focus shifting to the vase in front of him. "How do you know that if I return I won't leave again? That I won't hurt you again?" Emily knows her explanation is nothing but an excuse to him. "When I'm gone, I hurt you. When I'm here, I hurt you. There's no way for you to be happy, Spencer. I've damaged you, and I don't know how to fix it." She stares at him, watching the stillness in his profile and the thick wall he refuses to let down. "I don't know if I can." Nothing breaks it.

Emily finally surrenders, turning away, trying with great effort to not let the pain of his rejection show. It's impossible. She's let every wall down, and when she feels wetness streaking down her face, she presses her lips together, locking in the pleas that beg to be heard.

This is it. This is the end. Somehow, someone from high up gave her a second chance at whatever it is she's messed up. Emily has too many faults to count. Perhaps this might have been the wrong mistake to fix, and just before she takes the burden of blame and places it on her shoulders, she feels warmth envelop the entirety of her hand.

She nearly cracks her neck at the speed she turns her head, the contact a genuine shock. Emily trails her blurry gaze up to Spencer. His expression hasn't changed, but it doesn't matter—the intensity of his grip says it all.

Then something happens. His mouth moves and the forgiveness, hidden deep into his words, come out, along with something else.

"You can fix it. Come back."

A decision.

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
Well, I pictured it often in my head how he'd react, and what he'd say next, and avoiding his side of the story is how I picture it almost all the time. Simplifying and pushing aside his feelings is inherently Spencer Reid. In my book at least. Also, Emily trying to sum up her feelings in the most general way possible is how I read her character as well. A lot is thought in their minds while words are rarely ever spoken. To me, they just _get_ each other. I hope to see some feedback :) Always makes my day. Hope you enjoyed and I'll be back with an update soon!


	7. For Us

**Chapter Seven:** For Us

* * *

The look in her eyes frightens him, and that's when he considers the option of begging. Within them resides denial, fear, and the unmistakable feeling of her struggle to become free.

"Spencer, it's not that easy." She says, and the hopelessness in her words causes his stomach to sink.

"It's terrible," he begins, "to not be seen for so long. Acknowledged, even. But I've _always_ seen you, Emily. On the wall outside the entrance of the bullpen. Underneath the plastic cover of my wallet. In my mind… my dreams." His thumb brushes lightly over hers, his eyes still set on the marble vase. "I've always seen you, but that's never stopped me from looking."

He feels her grip tighten, maybe out of guilt, but he really can't be sure.

"You've been searching for me all this time?" Spencer sees her turn her head in his direction, surprise etched onto delicate features.

"It surprises you?" His focus now is held onto his lap. He counts the thin lines of his corduroy pants.

Her mouth opens in that fashion where her mind stops the words from coming out, editing her speech into something more eloquent and less raw. "I just never thought you'd be the one to do that."

"I told you how I felt about you." He reminds.

Emily looks down at their loose contact. "Who do you love, Spencer? Me, or the _thought_ of me? I've been gone for so long that I've become an illusion, and maybe you don't—"

His glare cuts her sentence short. "_You_." It's emphasized. "I love _you_." He's said it in a correcting manner, but can't help feel the tingle down his neck at the depth of it. How three simple words could mean so much fascinated him, like Emily Prentiss herself.

Spencer can see, that as much as she wants to look away, she doesn't. She keeps her eyes locked with his. "I can't say it, yet." Her response creates a thick silence between them, and he slowly begins to see her eyes well with tears at the admittance. "You've fallen in love with Emily Prentiss, and who I am right now, I'm not her. I can't find her, Spencer. I don't know who I've become."

She stares at him with defeat, the look so bleak it nearly causes him to console her with his touch. He consoles her with his words instead. "I can't seem to find Spencer Reid. You've heard about him in those letters, but now… I'm somebody else. Spencer is still mourning over many things. He still has headaches. He uses sex to solve things he can't with his mind. _I'm _here, whoever I am. Because you," He squeezes her hand. "You've created somebody else. Someone who has a backbone and will do what he deems necessary for survival."

"So we're both lost." She draws to a conclusion, blinking away the tears threatening to fall, uncertain of what Spencer was trying to convey.

He nods.

"We're both lost, but I believe we can find each other. Through this." He lowers his head, eyes fixed to where they connect.

A smile ghosts over faintly glossed lips. "When did it start?" She asks.

He's learned over the years to not let your true reaction show in your body—he's still looking her in the eye, his mouth is still closed, and his hand neither loosens nor tightens its grip on hers. He knows what she's referring to, and for a moment, he hesitates with a breath. It's what gives his uneasiness away.

It's apparently so evident that she has to reassure him. "I'm here to listen. Not judge." But he already knows that, and steeling himself with a breath, he tells her.

"It started when we were in Colorado on a case." He allows for the location to swim in her mind, the slight raise in her eyebrows an indication that it's dawned on her. "The Unsub was a former newsreporter, and during his stay at a conference in Toronto, he became obsessed with the case of a girl named Holly Jones." He feels a shiver rising as he recalls the details of the case. "She was kidnapped and dismembered, her murderer spreading her body parts all across the city. It was his first big story, and even if it is minor to us in terms of the body count, a girl was still murdered and a family lost a loved one. He copied that killer's signature and did the same in Colorado to girls who looked like Holly." Spencer sighs up into ceiling, eyes closing from the rather bright light. He gets up without warning and flicks it off. "He was up to six girls by the time we arrived, and one of them was from Cyrus' cult." He turns back around to face Emily and walks over to her, sitting a bit closer than before.

"Her name was Lauren." He grabs her hand, more tightly, the comfort of her presence calming his nerves. "Lauren Reynolds was a part of you, and even though that wasn't the girls last name and it was a different case, it became harder to not think of you." He lazily swings his head over to meet her gaze. His guard is slowly coming down, and the worry in her eyes reflect the emotion in his, his very own glassing over as he relives his fears. "That very same night, another girl fell victim. Her name was Emily."

This is when she's supposed to stop him.

But she doesn't.

She just gives him a slight nod, blinking her eyes, encouraging him to continue. So he does, with reluctance.

"I couldn't save her. And I couldn't save you. After the case, Morgan, much to my chagrin, dragged me out to a club…" He trails off, a blush beginning to creep up his neck.

Emily holds back a grin at his timidness. "The kind where they strip?" She answers for him with a question.

Spencer nods passively. "And that's when I saw her. She looked like you, a lot, and the club we went to also offered escort service. So when Morgan went to the bathroom, I quickly went up to her and gave her my hotel room and the instruction to be discreet. But when she opened her mouth…" He let out a sharp breath. "She wasn't you. Nothing like you."

He feels a thumb brushing over his knuckles, soothing his nerves as he goes through the hardest part of his story. "I told her to not talk. She would give my door a knock. Three fast ones and two slow ones—the syllables of your name. That was enough for me. That's when she became Emily, and that's when I had the chance to save you. To have you."

He lets the last few words settle, and when the stoic expression in her face is too much for him to handle, he feels the warmth in his hand disappear. Disappointment tints his features, only to turn into surprise when she lays her hand on top of his. "You have me now."

That's all he needs; her promise, her word.

"And I'm sorry you only have me now."

"I wasn't replacing you."

"I know you weren't. I would explain to you how I know, but then that'd be profiling, and we kept that a strict rule amongst us." He sees the flicker of light in her eyes at her last word. _Us_. He sees the happiness in her with the slightest mention of the team, of the family.

"It's going to take a while." He says. He's referring to getting help with his problem, and also to the further explanation of just how much he's screwed himself up, but he's also referring to them.

She nods, and that's when he knows she's gotten all three meanings.

"I'm afraid…" Emily's eyes dart down to her lap as her finger picks at a nail. "…to come back." Spencer feels fingers lace with his, and her gaze meeting with his again, a sincere warmth begins to emanate. "But I will, for us."

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
So begins Emily's return. Kind of. You'll see. Also, five million points to whoever catches a reference from a John Mayer song in here :) Thanks for all your kind reviews, everyone, and hopefully you'll continue to provide such wonderful encouragement. Hope you enjoyed this chapter and stick around for more!


	8. A Matter of Time

**Chapter Eight:** A Matter of Time

* * *

He stares at the red door, observing the diverse shades carefully painted over top, noticing the unsuccessful attempt to hide its fragility. He imagines the amount of times it's been shut hard with anger, the endless fights that must have happened behind it; the loosely screwed numbers are only a testament to his theory. His eyes trail down the rusting metal. He imagines the number of bodies that were pressed against it out of desire and the secrets it's kept. Including theirs.

It's taken them two weeks and three days to get where they are now.

Four days were spent with Spencer still on the case. Four excruciatingly, long days were spent testing his skill of focus; to not let an eyebrow twitch or to turn away whenever the slightest part of the case reminded him of Emily was a challenge, more so than the one to keep his addiction a secret. If his mother could see how he fooled the team—it'd almost make up for all the lost poker games. He might have been able to rid the knowledge of her existence while with them, but in solitude, Spencer could think nothing more than of Emily.

His hand grips the door handle of his car, eyes refusing to surrender to the fatigue. Spencer stifles a yawn, and he pulls his hand back to the steering wheel, resisting the urge to walk through the door.

One day was spent worrying about her. He'd packed early that morning—the extra hour on his hands was spent standing at the entrance of his room, eyes trailing to where she'd paced, resting them on the furniture she'd plopped down on. On the way to the elevator he imagined the amount of times she must have hesitated—or if such uncertainty was even felt—and sitting down in the back seat of the jet, it took all of Spencer's strength to not show his weakness. If watching her leave his sight that night pained him like bullets, leaving the country must be near death.

He flicks his wrist to check the time. He'd risen along with dawn, and though the hours were still a handful before she'd expect him, he had no intention of leaving her sight. For anything. Not even coffee. The memory of her hand in his, on the bone of his knee and the curve of his shoulder is his caffeine.

Two days were spent gathering up the courage to call her. She'd given him her number, and regardless the lessons Derek had taught him when it came to calling a woman he liked, this was the first time Spencer would be calling a woman he _loved_.

Though that red door can hide faces and muffle voices, the curtains lack the ability to conceal emotion. He can see her silhouette pace with uneasiness. The way her head bobs up and down tells him she's steeling herself. The shadow of her fingers are absent from his view, and that's when he knows she's afraid. Emily only balls her fists up for one reason—restlessness.

A week was spent arranging her travels. He'd complied when she insisted on keeping this as discreet as possible, and did his best to not argue with her when she suggested being alone for a day. It scared Spencer; she'd been alone for nearly a year, and now that he was there, he didn't want her to feel that way anymore. _"There's a difference between being alone and feeling lonely." _He remembered her words, the stern voice revealing a vulnerability he'd only heard once—when he'd asked who Lauren Reynolds was.

Spencer tries to distract himself from leaving his car. He isn't even supposed to be here.

It took two days to get her to Virginia. She'd pulled some strings and silenced some mouths for her return with Interpol—that was all she told Spencer. Emily had been closed off, and he knew better than to pry her open. All he could do to comfort her was to tell her what he's endured, hoping to God what she kept from him was nowhere near as dark as his struggles.

Before he's even conscious of what his body's doing, he's standing at the door, hands shoved into his pockets.

Emily insisted she'd stay at a motel to "settle" back in Virginia, and Spencer could do nothing but compromise, knowing she'd win regardless of his efforts. She'd chosen the nearest motel to his apartment for the reason of his concern. It failed. He slept in his car last night parked near her room.

She opens the door with a heavy sigh, leaning her head against the wide frame. "I thought you said eight."

"I did." He pulls his lips back in an anxious manner. "Technically, it's eight in the morning in New York."

Emily straightens both arms out, opening the door with one and reaching out to him with another. He's unsure of what to do with the limb presented before him. Does he take it? Does he walk into it? His eyes trail up her arm, quickly passing over the subtle lifts in her chest. He chastises himself for lingering on that part longer than he should, and before Spencer can apologize (because he knows she's caught him, and it doesn't take a profiler to do that), he sees it coming toward him. An arm languidly wraps around his neck and a hand rests on his shoulder.

The touch is different.

It feels distant, cold. The frailty her fingers dance with is gone. He knows something's wrong, and he's quite sure what it is. Then he sees it—the courage within him drags his eyes up to meet hers, and what lies in them startles him. Genuine fear.

"I can't do it."

He's been expecting that. He knows that if he hadn't pressured her into returning, she wouldn't have. She would have come back on her own eventually. At least that's what he _likes_ to think.

She meshes her lips together, knowing it's diminutive in comparison to the distress she must be feeling. "I can't say it back."

"Say what back?" He feels the confusion begin to stir, and when her eyes stay fixed on his, he knows what she means. "I already know you love me." Spencer still feels the hesitation in her touch, and before his body can do anything he'll regret, he continues. "You came back."

That's all it takes for her to smile and let him in.

She backs away, dragging her hand down his neck and chest, squeezing his shoulder lightly with the other. He closes the door behind him and locks it, watching her sit on the edge of the bed without the slightest discomfort. "Were you pacing earlier because you couldn't say you loved me?"

Emily bows her head in response, hands still on her lap.

He smiles at that; the nervousness that cracks her makes him feel special. "So you aren't nervous about explaining how you've risen from the dead to six people?"

"Four." She says quietly. She takes a breath before looking up at him. "JJ and Hotch know."

Spencer feels numb. The fear in her eyes slowly begin to emerge, brimming at the edges, ringing around with apology. Then it's gone. Before he can even let out a word, her eyes widen, nearly bulging out as she reaches for her suitcase.

"And Morgan will too if you don't think of something quick."

He looks behind him to see a figure headed in their direction. He can see the older man's neck cocking to the side, peaking into the window of the room. He turns back to Emily in panic. Spencer watches as she rolls her suitcase into the bathroom, and before she can close the door behind her, what comes out of his mouth stops her from hiding.

"Morgan knows about my problem." He's standing up now, and it feels like hours before her body registers what he's implying.

Emily slowly turns on the heel of her foot, brows knitted and mouth open. "And you want me to _what?_"

He swallows. "I don't want you to hide. It's either you play along or we tell him here."

"Play along?" She begins to stalk forward. "I've had this entire moment planned ever since I arrived in Paris. I am not going to ruin it by—"

"Hey, kid!" Two bangs on the door startle them. "I know it's you—your crappy ass car is parked outside. Let me in."

Emily shuffles on her feet, chest heaving with grave uncertainty as that voice fills her ears. In the midst of the decision she has yet to make, she smiles, and he sees the emotion in her eyes gather. Then she turns to him. "What if he won't take me back, Spencer?"

"Kid!" The bangs are louder.

"You're not some pet, Emily." He speaks over the threats being spoken behind them.

"But what_ if_ he doesn't? Out of all of them I know it's Morgan who'll—"

"She's not Emily!"

And that's what silences her. The bangs don't frighten her as much as his words, as much as the care that still lines them. Spencer knows by the way she faces the door that she's not going to play along. Emily takes a deep breath, and with a slight nod, she stands behind him, walking towards the door.

Spencer opens it, not surprised to see the anger etched onto his friend's face, a mask to hide his concern. "You've got some nerve making me wait, kid. I don't care—"

Morgan stops. His eyes are fixed onto the hand squeezing Spencer's shoulder, widening as he recognizes the unmistakable nails. Spencer steps aside, loosening away from the grip, unshielding her from what he knows won't hurt her.

Moments of silence pass. Morgan is absent from his view and it's only Emily he sees, her face not giving much away except for terror.

Then he hears it, and that's when he knows something's wrong.

"Emily?"

* * *

**To Be Continued  
**I'm actually too exhausted to write anything else but: I hope you enjoyed it and I hope to see a review or two. Thanks for being so patient :)


	9. You Again

**Chapter Nine:** You Again

* * *

Silence.

She became accustomed to it as a child of an Ambassador. She enjoyed it in her youth after escaping the chaos she tangled herself up in Rome. It became the unwritten rule in the Bureau. It was her only companion after escaping Doyle.

Emily finds it rather unsettling now. What she also finds unsettling is what she sees before her.

Derek Morgan does not cry. Perhaps a tear shed here and there, but _streaks_ of them _flowing down_? No such thing has ever been witnessed by her, or Spencer for the matter. But it's happening. He's crying.

He's crying and every single muscle in his body tries to deny it—Emily can see. His eyebrows furrow, slanting down, like what she perceives his trust is now with her. She can see the slight movement in his jaw, and the grinding of his teeth coincides with his clenching fists. Emily can see him trying, so _desperately_ hard to control his emotion, but she knows better.

She knows the eyes always hold the truth, and what resides in her former partner's eyes frighten her. Denial, but no anger. Derek Morgan isn't Derek Morgan without a little anger.

Emily doesn't know what to do but look back at him. She hopes that her eyes reveal just as much truth as his, and she's willing to tell him if he allows her to. She stares at him until she feels wetness falling down her own face, and suddenly the silence is gone. She can hear Spencer opening the door wider, letting him in.

But he doesn't accept the invitation. He turns the other way and begins to walk, quickly, to hide the uncontrollable heaves his chest makes.

"Dere—" she steps out into the morning light, reaching for his shoulder only to catch air. He says nothing. He keeps walking until he's in his car.

It's done. Everything she's planned will be of no use once he starts that engine and drives, no doubt to tell everyone of what he's discovered. She waits for it to be done, for him to drive away. And she waits. Emily stands in utter confusion outside of the motel as she watches Derek in his car. He hasn't moved for nearly a minute.

She realizes then that he's waiting for her, and with grave uncertainty, she steps forward, forcing her legs to not break in stride. She knows he can't make her face out from the distance, but he'd know from her cautious steps that she was afraid, and she can't have him thinking that. She knows it could—it_ would_ imply something else.

She's not afraid of him knowing and telling. Emily's afraid for his disownment.

She settles into the passenger's side, and once the door shuts, it locks.

"Who are you." It's not a question, but a demand. A demand to tell him who she is, and who she's become.

"I'm Emily Prentiss."

She sees the vein in his temple pulse. "Emily Prentiss died. Who are you."

"I'm Emily Prentiss." She says it with more force than before. She says it with less tenderness and with the utmost certainty, hoping that she'd convince herself somewhere along the way that she was the same person she was the year before, but she knows that isn't going to happen. Not with her and not with Derek.

"Who. Are. You."

He refuses to look at her. Instead he looks straight ahead, watching as Spencer closes the red wood, giving them privacy in the outdoors.

"I'm not sure of my name." She finally admits, and her honesty is rewarded with the slightest nod. "You used to know me." Emily turns away from him, looking parallel to his view, catching sight of Spencer pacing back and forth through the window.

"I did?" His question frightens her. It doesn't emit uncertainty and the suggestion to educate; it's a challenge. One to remind him and _convince_ him that she really is who she is.

"You once called me your partner and your friend."

"You stopped being my partner when you died."

"So you admit, I'm Emily Prentiss?" The hope in her rises at his words.

"Not the one I knew." It's cold. That's all she feels from him, and regardless from knowing better, she replies with the same bitterness.

"And you're not the Derek Morgan I knew."

And that's when the ice melts. "Well if you hadn't faked your damn death and left without a _damn_ word, I probably wouldn't have changed."

"You know staying the same is impossible." She keeps her voice levelled, not raising it, like his temper.

"Like you coming back to life?" He finally turns to face her, and out of instinct she turns to face him, seeing the hurt that continues to flow relentlessly from fiery eyes. "I told you to _stay with me!_"

"And I told you to let me go!" Their voices ring loudly in her ears, and she continues to speak before the silence between them deafens her. "I am not asking for your forgiveness. I am asking for your consideration of forgiveness, and when that happens, I'll tell you everything, Derek."

She sees the slight raise of his brows, betraying the stoic expression on his face. "Why are you so sure that'll happen?"

"Because you said I stopped being your partner when I died. You never said I stopped being your friend." She releases the tense position she's in by twisting her upper body to face him, making sure to keep distance at the same time. "You know how difficult it is to let people in. I never do that, Derek. You were the person I first opened up to when I came to the Bureau. I told you about messing up my date by mentioning Kilgore Trout. You saw the parts of me I was cautious on revealing, but revealed. It may seem like so little to you, but it's the most I've ever given."

When he doesn't reply, she moves back to facing the motel room. Emily takes deep breaths to calm the rising fear of rejection, but it doesn't help. It just get worse, and when the seconds of silence turn into minutes, the sound of his voice causes her to sag in relief.

"Doyle's dead?"

She nods, knowing she can't be any more articulate with the tricks her mind is playing on her.

"And you're alive."

She nods again.

"That wasn't a question." He says, and she continues to nod, knowing those three words mean more than she could ever ask for from him.

She's alive—to Spencer, to Derek, and to herself—and she's beginning to feel like Emily again.

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
For some reason, with Derek and Emily, when they have serious conversations there are barely any words in comparison to the silence and looks. And oddly enough, their little use of words say so much. Hopefully what I imagined their first encounter to be seems believable, and I understand there are many ways to approach this. Thanks for the read, and opinions on this chapter would be more than great (don't worry, I haven't dropped Emily's work in the past year. That will be revealed soon). Stick around for more, and thanks for reading this far! :)


	10. Ignoring the Obvious

**Chapter Ten:** Ignoring the Obvious

* * *

She watches him carefully, the squint in her eyes narrowing into confusion. Flip. Mark. Stack. Lick. Grab. Flip. Mark. Stack. "Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Emily relents as she voices the curiosity within her.

"It's not any of my business. What happened between you and Morgan is between you and Morgan." Spencer flips over a page of a file, marking the back with a red dot and stacking it to his right. He takes another sheet and does the same, only this time marking it with blue, stacking it into a separate pile.

"Yes, it is." She replies. His rhythm changes and he works faster, like her words are his fuel to persist through the afternoon. She'd spent nearly an hour in the car with Derek, and when she came back, Spencer's coat had been shed and papers were sprawled over the bed.

"No," He marks a sheet with more force than necessary, "it's not." He flips it over to his left and pulls the cap off the bottom of the pen, covering the tip.

She's been clocking how long he's held this up, and with her impatience bursting at its seams, she can't let another minute ride on the hundred and twenty. "Spencer," She rises from the poorly cushioned sofa, "tell me." She slowly pries the pen from his tight grip, taking the release as permission to continue. Emily seats herself in front of him, letting her knees brush against his.

"If we're going to do this you can't just be selective of what my business is and what isn't." His fingers dance nervously on his knees.

"This?" She repeats it for two reasons, the first being a confirmation for her insecurities and the second for his response.

"_This._" He repeats, his fingers crossing over the space of comfort and into hers. The drumming stops when that part of his body connects them, and the stillness of his touch allows her to hear the uncertainty in his breath. Spencer breathes uneven paces. "I'm—I understand if you're not ready, Emily. I'll wait—I've waited, and I will continue to." She feels his touch retracting, and she stops it, laying the tips of her fingers over his.

"I'm not ready. I wasn't when I left, and I'm not now that I'm back. It's—" She gives herself a moment to breathe out the endless frustration. "We are always getting ready to live but never living."

The slightest smile ghosts his lips and it's in that moment Emily knows it's worked. She invites him into the world he's certain of—the world of words. "Emerson." He mumbles. His touch begins to liven under hers, feeling the faintest tremble in his fingers. "What are we, Emily? In six years we've endured more than any one should ever have to and… and it's strange, this feeling that's grown in your absence. There's so much to consider about you and I, because regardless we'll never be one. We'll just be Spencer and Emily."

"And what's wrong with that?" She watches him closely, the silence being his answer. "You were my first visit when I was undercover."

"You don't have to—"

"I can never stay away from the job, even if I almost died from it. Interpol created some fake records for my new identity in Paris. JJ gave me three, and Carrie was the one I used often. I hated moving, so I dug myself into a hole inside the crater I was already in. I did light cases, mainly ones where I'd go undercover as just about anything for the people I worked for. I was hired to find out things for them." Emily closes her eyes for a brief moment, only to be pulled from her inner solitude by Spencer's touch. "I was a nanny who had to seduce but _not really seduce_ my client's husband. She always wondered why the women they hired seemed to be out the door in less than a week, and the advances her husband tried to make on me was her answer. Then I was a gardener, an assistant, a maid—I was everything everyone wanted me to be, and I was tired of that. I've been doing that all my life, and I promised myself I would stop." She rolls her neck around to rid of the kinks, taking a breath when it hangs down in shame. "I hadn't been called for weeks, and I was barely paying rent. I turned down so many jobs that I took the first one I could, and it happened to be_… that_. I was supposed to be—I've been so many people in the past year that being Emily is a good thing."

She squeezes his hand, and in turn, he does the same, offering the support she seeks. "She's all I want to be, Spencer, and you're all I need you to be. Does that make sense?" She doesn't remember the last time she's begged for him to understand.

"I understand." He nods faintly. Spencer begins to pull away, eyes already set on the stack of papers beside them.

"No, you don't." She holds onto him with both hands. "I've let you in." The surprise and confusion Emily sees flick across his face allow her to sag in relief, but fill with sadness. "There's not much left inside."

"You've given too much of yourself." He says, the realization in his words ringing loudly in her ears. "May I?" Spencer's fingers fidget under her touch, and regardless of the uncertainty consuming her mind, she nods.

All he does is grab her hands, tighter than he ever has before. He brushes his thumb over every knuckle and traces every vein he can see. He studies her hands, the rapid flicks in his eyes making up for the stillness his head continues to hold. Spencer never pries his eyes away from her hands—the physical carrier of everything she's ever given away, and he fills the emptiness it holds with his touch.

That's when Emily knows she's allowed him to do what she's never allowed anybody else to _ever_ do—take care of her.

* * *

**To Be Continued  
**Well, this settles a tiny part of the complications they'll be having and will continue to have. Although Emily's let Spencer take care of her, it hasn't happened vice versa. Will it ever? Who knows. You'll just have to stick around for the answer and big reveal to the team. Your reviews make this sick/stressful week so much better, so thank you thank you _thank you_. Hopefully I'll be sparked to update sooner. I hope to see some reviews, I heard it's the best medicine for a writer to get better ;)


	11. Apeiron

**Chapter Eleven: **Apeiron

* * *

Her head tilts slightly to what catches her attention. "What are these?" Emily cranes her neck forward, putting her question past the walls of his study and into the bathroom.

She hears a few taps of his razor on the sink before the water stops running. "What are what?" The question is mumbled into a towel as Spencer walks out towards her, wet hair slicked back.

"These." Emily holds the papers she's pulled out from a folder. "These reports." With the way he's written his name, she knows it's been a handful of years since he's taken a glance at them.

"Those are just…" Despite the lack of distance he squints his eyes, "papers. From my first year at university."

"You were like, what, twelve?"

"Uh, seventeen." She takes notice in the light clench his fist makes at the towel before throwing it over his shoulder, the wetness seeping onto the grey cotton. Before apology can escape her lips, she hears his ask innocence. "What was it like?"

"…What was what like?"

"Being seventeen." Just as judgment reaches her tongue, Spencer shifts, and the light that casts over him makes Emily see just how… _old _he's gotten. She sees the maturity swirling in his eyes, the wisdom darkened beneath them—she sees the years have weighed on him, the previous one especially, and to that she feels great fault in herself.

Emily takes a small breath, letting out the obsession of blame and focusing. She can't go there. "I don't know. Hectic, I guess." She looks into his eyes, and suddenly the maturity disappears, the hunger for experience replacing them. "That was the peak of my rebellion. I snuck out and did a lot of things my Mother told me not to do. I loved antagonizing her." Her lips curl as she imagines how many times her Mother must have dyed her hair within that year, certain it had been at least four.

"Why?" Her thoughts are too vivid and loud with remembrance to take notice of his tone. She shrugs her shoulders with exaggeration, her mind coming to a blank. "She was my Mom. I was seventeen and—" Emily stops.

He's still; more so than the air in Hotch's office, and though she's used to the silence, the one she now hears deafens her.

His eyes are staring straight into hers. His jaw is subtly clenched. His lips are closed, but not sealed. His brows refuse to give into the height of his emotions. He's blocked himself from her, the coals of his eyes guarded with thick glass.

This isn't like Spencer. Emily traces back her words, going over each one in the hopes of finding what exactly it was she said that made him so cold. But she can't, because what she sees before her distracts her from delving so deep into her thoughts. The anger on his face forces her to put her walls back up in fear. "If I said something to—"

"You did."

She stares at him for moments uncounted, failing to read his thoughts and refusing to show the frustration that begins to stain her. Emily considers apologizing, and though she doesn't know what for, it could be less dangerous than treading angry waters. But she doesn't. She knows it's the easy way out—a step taken back. She doesn't want to move back but can't move forward. Stuck is what she is, until he blinks, and his lips move, the one word bringing Emily utter confusion.

"Storge." Her eyes articulate the uncertainty she's filled with, causing him to continue. "Greek, for a love that blossoms from friendship." He stuffs his hands into his pockets with force, beginning to rock back and forth. Emily's noted many times that he does this out of nervousness but his voice emits nothing of the sorts, betraying her past judgement. "Pragma," He continues. "A love controlled by the mind and not the heart."

She knows where he's going, what he's implying. Emily lolls her head to the other side, making sure not to narrow her eyes. She knows he would mistaken the gesture for annoyance if she did so, the purpose of it simply due to the pain in her neck. It doesn't work. He reads her action wrong and continues to bat off words in the foreign language, explaining the kind of love they embody. The frustration begins to fade as she begins to see his pain, evident in his words and features.

"Which one is it, Emily?" He pulls her from his thoughts. "Which love do you have for me, because the one you had for your Mom was clearly not a good one."

"I may not have been an angel to my Mother but the regardless the amount of times I've hurt her, I loved and continue to love her." Her voice is louder than she expects, with much more emotion than she intends.

"Then why did you hurt her?" She can see the shape of his knuckles through the fabric of his pants, and their prominence makes Emily realize just how much fear he's holding on to. "Why does everybody do that?" His voice breaks and his failed attempt to cover it only makes her heart clench more.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Spencer." She's soft with her words, seeing the invisible wounds that cover him.

He takes a step back, shaking his head at the floor. "You already have, twice. How can I—" He takes a small breath before continuing. "How can I know you won't do it again?"

The split silence she allows the air to be filled with worsens it, and the uncertainty she emits in her stance worsens it, more, if that was at all possible. Before she can string together a sentence he crosses the room and takes a hold of his jacket, with seemingly no intention to look back.

Spencer takes quick, long steps forward, coming to an abrupt stop at her words. "They're not me." The three words cause no relief, the desperation in the air blown away by his bluntness.

"They won't hurt me."

Emily quietly takes a step forward and tries to blink away the emotion that begs to be let out. "Spencer.."

"I'll leave first." He says, his voice weaker.

"Spencer." Her tone asks for him to turn around, but he doesn't. It only makes the grip on his coat loosen, and Emily takes advantage. She places her hand on the coat; close, so he can feel the heat of her touch, but not as close where fire meets ice. She pries the coat from his reluctant grip, feeling the circular shape of thin protection in the side pockets. It makes her stomach drop at his preparedness—at the trap he's unknowingly created for himself to fall back. Emily sets his coat aside, and she circles him until her face meets his.

"Aletheia."

His brows knit from the foreign response.

"True." She takes a step forward at her translation. "Efthrafstos." One hand hesitantly rests on his chest while the other on his shoulder, and his eyes flick with a familiarity at the contact. Emily feels the surprising relief and continues. "Fragile." The hands trail down to his pocket, reaching in to grab his left hand, and she opens it, slowly. "Apeiron." Her finger traces the dark symbol inked onto his palm. "Infinite."

His eyes, that so often pain her to look in, give her a courage she did not possess, the stare so lost and torn that it nearly causes her to pull away. "I can't lie to you, Spencer; you'll need more than I can give. But if you let me in, I'll try. I'll try to give you more." She doesn't know exactly how two lives filled with misery can ever turn so joyful, but she hopes.

"That doesn't make—"

"Two negatives make a positive."She tries to relate the complexity of love to what Spencer understands—math. "That doesn't make much sense either, but people do it anyways. People love because they—"

"Actually," He interjects. Not as cheerfully as he does when he corrects Derek, but with a slight hint of amusement. "Every number has an additive inverse allied to it. It's like an opposite number, and when you add that to the…" Spencer begins slowly, each word allowing him to grow in confidence, yet they begin to sound faint in Emily's ears. Her eyes begin to focus on his eyes, the slight squint and comfort in them captivating her. For him to be drawn out of the intensity of a conversation like this should annoy her. In fact, one would feel immediate disrespect to his change of subject, but Emily feels neither.

She feels… joy.

She feels a bubble in her chest pop at the wonder that Spencer is, the genuine fascination spreading across her lips and reaching her eyes. Emily blinks, and she hears his voice nearing again. "…It wouldn't really make sense to say our situation is comparable with the positive product of negative numbers. It's like using the term—" He stops talking, noticing the distance closing in between them, though he does nothing to stop it, nor anything to agree with it. "For someone so grounded, you leave your body quite often." It's tinted with an emotion she knows he's uncomfortable with, but it doesn't make her stop. Her focus shifts from his lips to his eyes, and with closer observation Emily becomes aware of the worry lightly lining his face. She sees Spencer trying to hide his concern, and she knows that if she calls him out on it, he'll close up what took him so long to open. So she doesn't.

"Emily?" His tone makes her stop—she stops thinking, stops moving, stops breathing. The way his brows knit makes her stomach knot in uncomfortable ways, seeing the heavy pain they line with. "I'm ready. I need you to know that, and I need to know if you are. Because if you aren't… I'll—"

"You'll wait, I know." She comes off with a bitter tone, frustrated almost, though at the core she feels nothing but undeserving. "I know you'll wait, Spencer, but you can't wait forever. You'll get tired. Of guessing, of waiting, of creating what I can't make for you." She sighs down between the closed spaces of their chests, unwilling to look up. "I've never been in a serious relationship. Lauren has and other people I've become have, but me?" She lays a finger onto her chest. The way it beats—the fast pace it runs for Spencer—makes her pull away, ashamed to let him know just how much her heart swells for him. "I hurt my Mother because she loved me. And I kept hurting her because I knew she would always be there, I knew she'd always be behind me… Then I was fifteen, and the things I did," She swallows at her mistakes, trying to keep down the guilt of her past. Emily looks down once again, the change in her focus so visible to Spencer that he pulls away and grips both hands at her waist, thumbs brushing over the flat area, knowing it once held something so precious to her. "I remember turning around and finding no one." She looks up, the corners of her lips in a deep frown. "I killed what would have been my child, but you have to understand, Spencer…" He moves closer to hush her, to make her know that she doesn't need to explain her actions.

"No, Spencer, please listen." Her words shock him. Her persistence to explain herself keeps him close, but a little wounded. "I need you to listen. I need you to know this part of me." With a nod, Emily continues. "I let them go because I know I wouldn't be able to give the love they needed. And I know that there are a million other people out there who would have loved to adopt my child, but I was scared. What if they were caught in the middle like Declan? The world wasn't—the world_ isn't_ a safe place, Spencer. You can give as much love as you have and you can still get hurt. You can still suffer, you can get punished for the mistakes others have made. You, out of all people, would know that. I love you, Spencer." Her mouth opens to let something else escape, but afraid for it to be a sob, she closes it, knowing her eyes articulate enough of her seriousness. "I love you and I am so afraid to love you. I have never been willing to give anyone _everything_ I possess. If you leave…I'll have nothing. I'll be nothing."

The silence between them creates stillness in their bodies. Spencer is still looking down, hands gripped at her waist. Emily can only see the shadows of his features and she begins to worry. She knows he's said it all, that he's laid it all down for her. Even through the letters, the tattoo, the constant reminder of him never leaving, doubt still clouds her decision. It wasn't so much a problem of his but of hers, and Emily's afraid of the conclusion he'll make; he _is_ enough. Emily is not.

Then his head snaps back up and he speaks, voice meek in comparison to the posture he displays. "Quid pro quo." He says it with certainty, though she knows by his voice she's damaged some part of him.

"Something for something?" She translates the phrase.

Spencer nods, lips bunching with one shoulder rising. "My heart for yours." He pulls out his left hand and opens it. Emily takes it and places it on her scar, over her chest and over the love she fears to feel. She nods, agreeing at his trade and faces his palms up, kissing at the symbol of his care. She fills the loose grip with her hand, holding onto his tightly, and what he begins to do surprise her.

He moves closer, moves lower—his neck cranes down and when his lips don't meet hers, she becomes stunned at the warmth suddenly making its way up from her chest. Spencer kisses her scar, lips covering the entirety of the clover, and for a moment Emily feels nothing. She feels unflawed, like he's taken the imperfections away from her. His lips move their way up to her collarbone, her neck, the lining of her jaw, and before she knows it he's hovering over her lips. "My heart for yours." She repeats, her words hardly making their way out as he places his lips over hers.

Deafened by the loud thumps in their ears and blinded by the visions of one another they hardly hear the door open, only when it closes do they realize they aren't alone.

* * *

**To Be Continued**  
It has been _months_, I am aware. With Graduation, Prom and my one month vacation back to my home country, this chapter only landed with me now. It _is_ longer than the other chapters. It needed the detail, the internal conflict and (just) hopefully it made up for the three month's absence. There are so many ways to tell someone they love you, and this just happened to be one I thought would fit. Hopefully it was plausible in regards to Emily and Spencer and the way they handle situations. It's great to be back, and I hope you guys like it? :)


	12. Burden

**Chapter Twelve: **Burden

* * *

The slight breeze that hits her ankles makes her aware that they aren't alone. She's afraid to pull away—to open her eyes from the dream she's had the good fortune of living. She can feel his thumbs retract from their grip on her waist, becoming surprised at the sudden sense of safety she feels wrapping around her. But she knows. Emily knows his protectiveness is out of fear—of losing her again—and though she's assured him countless times of her permanency in his life, the aftermath of what he's endured still plagues him with doubt. Her hips burn from the warmth of his touch, feeling his fingers tap against her and in an attempt to distract herself, she focuses on the creaking door.

"I'd tell you two to get a room, but it's kind of my fault that I saw this." His free hand tries to swing the door to a close as faces them, leaning heavily on one side of his body.

"Kind of?" She sees Spencer's brows rise in amusement. "Your logic is very flawed, Derek." She knows his use of his friend's name is a rarity, a sign that he's vulnerable, that he's afraid. Emily catches sight of dark eyes dropping down to Spencer's possessiveness, of his arm securely yet casually wrapped around her body. For a moment his grip tightens, but when his eyes meet Derek's and both heads nod in some sort of understanding, she feels it loosen completely from her hip.

"Hey." Her eyes dart to the small streak of fluorescent light next to his feet, and it's then Emily realizes that the door is still open, and in fear of being heard, she nods. She can feel her frame shrink, her chest tighten and her mouth shut with anxiety. Only the people she loves have the privilege of knowing she was still alive—if there had been anything she'd learned from the past year, it was the great value of her life.

Derek catches her cause of paranoia and begins to shut the door. Just as he lets go of the knob, it twists and a flood of light runs up to Emily's feet. She feels smaller than before, and she wonders how the thin fabric of her shirt is suddenly able to contain so much heat.

"Hotch," Derek begins, aware of the sudden stillness in his friend. Before he can continue he's cut off with a flat tone.

"I believe I'm already acquainted." He nods in Emily's direction, his stare maintained regardless of the effort he's made to come inside. Aaron Hotchner has never made her feel guilty. He's made her feel a spectrum of emotions, but guilt? Even when his word seeped through JJ that she fake her death, no such emotion ever emerged.

Emily was protecting herself, and now, coming out of hiding, she can see the damage her secret has done to him. That perhaps, it was her who's made him feel guilt the entire time.

There's a softness on his face she hadn't seen before. She can see by the way his tie is loosened and from the wrinkle in his cuffs that he's worked longer nights, and something about the way his brows rest heavier on those tired eyes make her feel frail. Emily finally breaks away from his gaze, taking cautious steps towards the man she once served. "Prentiss." He nods again, and his left hand branches out for an expected greeting.

Then she sees it. Emily sees the nakedness of his hand—of one finger in particular. She sees the faint band of light skin moving towards her, stopping at a safe distance, and she becomes uncertain of what to do. She can see the defeat sag across his frame, the padding in his blazer not enough to cover the slump his shoulders make. Emily sees the stiff limb attempting to present strength, when she knows what Hotch has left of it is nothing more than a thread; she can see him hold onto it, tightly. She promises, right then and there, that if she ever finds the woman who shattered that glass heart of his, she would get the worst of the Prentiss Wrath.

Moments pass by with his persistence and her uncertainty, neither failing to retreat, and when she sees the slightest hint of his retraction, she does it. Emily rocks forward, arms wrapping around him for an embrace. She knows that his arms are only familiar to the embrace of his son, so it surprises her when the affection is returned. He holds her with a sense security she hasn't felt before; his arms shelter her—they cage the frailty of her soul regardless of how broken he is inside, and his willingness to protect her nearly causes her knees to give in.

"You're here." She hears the words slip, the tone questioning, and the feel in his embrace turns tense. She can feel the apology in his touch, in the way his hands clench over her back. Emily pulls away entirely and faces him.

"You did the right thing, Hotch. Five years ago you gave me the chance to do what I loved. Last year you gave me the chance to live. I'm here because of that." She sees the disbelief in his eyes emerge from the apologetic look. "I'm here because of _you_, Aaron." When the words roll off her tongue she sees a flash of relief on his face. Only when she continues does it fade and she realizes that something is wrong. "I'm here because you and JJ took the—" All he has to do is nod, to give her that look of understanding, but he doesn't. What he does—what he_ says_ places many things onto her shoulders, making her feel confusion, worry, and guilt at the unraveling story.

"JJ's in Paris."

* * *

**To Be Continued  
**Sorry for the wait (though it isn't months this time, so there's an improvement) on this chapter. It's been collecting virtual dust on my laptop for a while, because I couldn't for the sake of me pinpoint what felt so off about this chapter. Perhaps my characterization of Hotch isn't well suited/justified enough. I will most likely edit this chapter, but for now, I hope anyone who reads this is satisfied with it. I must also thank those who favourited and subscribed to this story! I am ecstatic and very, very honoured. Stayed tuned for more!


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